The Sollan Bay, once a quiet, quaint, and empty bay, was now riddled with machinery of all types, cranes now towering over the port like titans of old Alveronian folklore, lifting supplies from the few docked cargo ships, and dozers clearing out spaces; modern buildings to support everything ranging from embassy setup, housing for local civilians, and company regional headquarters, all being constructed under Turner Construction, while the port and its facilities themselves were done by AECOM, which the American Government, jointly with the Japanese and Alveronian government themselves, had both contracted, each costing millions respectively, to begin large-scale construction on the Bay.
The bay echoed with the clang of metal against metal, the high-pitched beeping of reversing vehicles, and the distant hum of engines that never seemed to pause
The native locals observed the scene with a swirl of emotions-wonder and awe etched on some faces, while others reacted irritably. An old woman slammed her shutters closed with a sharp clatter, muttering under her breath with annoyance as the ground trembled beneath the rumble of bulldozers, their relentless noise drowning out the once-familiar melody of morning birdsong. Along the bay's edge, villagers gathered, their eyes tracking one of the massive ships as it glided by. They exchanged whispered words, "Impossible," murmured repeatedly in tones of disbelief.
The port was busier than ever before in the history of Alveron, let alone housing such large ships. Very few of the locals had ever been to the first civilisation, let alone seen modern cargo vessels.
The likes of the Japanese cargo ship with the words "ONE Minato" painted on the pink hull of the ship as it bore the flag of Japan, and the two American vessels "Missouri Express" and "Maersk Sentosa" all started to prepare for their subsequent docking, carrying a multitude of different payloads, from consumer goods for both overseas workers and locals, along with construction supplies.
For the American and Japanese governments, the extensive construction was more than just military expansion-it was an effort to reclaim lost economic frontiers and reinforce their spheres of influence. Every new ship launched, every supply line secured, and every piece of infrastructure constructed was another step toward re-establishing dominance in a rapidly shifting world.
Elderly fishermen, used to small wooden boats, stood at the shore, their jaws slightly agape as they traced the outlines of the gargantuan hulls gliding into port, muttering about the days when the waters were calm and when the only noise was the creak of wooden boats and calls of seagulls, not the roar of engines or the clatter of construction. In their eyes, with their sizes being hundreds of meters long, the ships were large enough to be floating cities, far larger than any ship their nation had.
There was even a lone cargo ship from the State of Bastan anchored at the port-all the ships together brought a sense of awe and wonder. Children, even after this type of thing had become common over the past weeks, sprinted down the dirt paths, their eyes wide as they pointed at the towering cranes and massive cargo ships, always asking questions about them to their parents, among themselves, or even any on-break workers who may have gone for a walk.
Though smaller than the average size of the other cargo ships, it was still far larger than what most Alveronians had witnessed. Trailing not far behind the column of merchant ships was a small group of warships, three most reminiscent of a Second World War-era destroyer.
The cargo ships began to dock; the waves lapped against the vessel's sides, passing multiple docked and anchored warships, flying the flags of the Kingdom of Alveron and the Hindoe Kingdom, resembling old ironclads. Sailors populated the decks of the warships, watching and leaning over the rails as they waved to the American and Japanese cargo ships. One nearly fell overboard before being caught and quickly berated by an officer.
Meanwhile, at the eastern side of the port where the Bastanian cargo ship lay docked, a lone vehicle bearing the flag of Alveron mounted on a pole in its right fender came off of the newly built asphalt service road onto the uncompleted, rugged, and pothole riddle dirt road, kicking up dust in its path. It came to a slow stop before the right-side back door swung open, and a man wearing a neat, newly made diplomatic uniform stepped out, followed by a woman in an Alveronian captain's uniform.
The man raised his gaze to the ship's side, reading the letters painted across its hull: "ÄS Rivö Express." His eyes shifted to the two figures descending the gangway, escorted by one armed personnel from the Bastanian Armén. The appearance struck him as reminiscent of American or Japanese soldiers. Their firearm and armour were similar, but their camouflage stood out; instead of small patterns designed for closer ranged combat, it was a pattern of irregular, larger polygons in a limited palette-a dark olive green, a lighter medium green, a blackish blue, and brownish grey, along with the Bastanian flag stitched to both shoulders, as if it were made for longer ranged combat.
The Alveronian diplomat adjusted her scarlet red tie, her practised smile firmly in place as he sized up the approaching Bastanians. Without turning her head, she glanced sideways at the woman beside herself and murmured, "Any idea what's with the armed guards this time, Rosemary?"
She folded her arms, her expression thoughtful. "Probably just routine security for the weapons transfer, Sheridan," she replied in a hushed tone, her brow furrowing slightly. "Though it's odd-they didn't have military personnel involved last time. Could it be a subtle show of force?" She paused, then shook her head. "No, sending just one guard down here doesn't exactly scream intimidation. But I did hear rumours of a Bastanian cargo ship carrying arms nearly getting seized by Aetesian forces. Could be related to that..."
Sheridan nodded slightly, her expression remaining neutral. "True. It's more likely they're playing it safe. Tensions with Aetesians and all that. Let's not overthink it; we'll stick to the script."
Sheridan's gaze shifted to the man in military clothing standing behind the captain. Her sharp eyes caught the stitched nameplate on the uniform, reading "Ågren," just above the insignia denoting his rank as a Major. The man's posture was firm, exuding an air of authority and discipline, though his expression betrayed a practised neutrality.
Sheridan continued forward with measured strides, the polished soles of his shoes crunching slightly against the uneven dirt beneath her. Rosemary followed closely, her gaze flicking between the Bastanian figures ahead.
The major, walking with a posture of calm authority, raised his hand in a simple gesture. The soldier escorting them halted immediately, his boots approaching a firm stop with precision. Sheridan took note of the discipline, her lips curling into a faint smile as she closed the remaining distance, raising her hand towards the captain for a handshake.
"Welcome to Sollan Bay. I am Ambassador Sheridan. I hope the voyage has been delightful for you," Sheridan began, her voice steady and warm. She motioned to her right with her left hand to where Rosemary stood. "This is Captain Rosemary of the Alveronian Navy. She has been assigned to supervise the shipment on our side to ensure everything is according to our agreed terms."
The captain nodded softly, finishing the shake. "Of course, thank you, Ambassador. I am Captain Carlsson of the Rivo; it is a pleasure finally meeting the both of you." He then turned to Rosemary, taking her by the hand and shaking it gently. "Captain Rosemary, I appreciate your presence here in the Bay," Carlsson said.
Rosemary smiled in acknowledgement. "Well, there isn't anything we can't do."
Captain Carlsson nodded back, breaking from the handshake as he introduced the high-ranking man flanking him. "And Major Lars Ågren, Bastanian Armed Forces, the overseer of arms shipments to Alveron."
"Captain Rosemary, Ambassador Sheridan," Ågren steps forward, carefully eyeing his two counterparts yet projecting a less intimidating look and aura.
"Welcome to Solan Bay, Major. A pleasure to meet you." Sheridan warmly greeted, arms extended toward the Bastanian Major.
"Likewise, Mr. Ambassador." Major Ågren replied, firmly responding to Sheridan's handshake. He then focuses his sight towards Rosemary, who is waiting for her turn to greet him.
Major Ågren took Rosemary's outstretched hand with a firm but measured grip, nodding respectfully. "Captain Rosemary, it is an honour," he said, his tone steady and professional, though a faint smile touched his otherwise stoic features.
"How much of the equipment has arrived on schedule?" Rosemary asked, letting go of the major's palms.
Ågren straightened slightly, his expression remaining neutral but attentive. "All shipments of anti-tank weapons designated for the agreement have arrived on schedule. However, there have been some adjustments regarding the small arms shipments, which were scheduled for next week."
Sheridan exchanged a brief glance with Rosemary before responding. "I assume this is due to the recent incursion by Aetesian forces within Atazgan."
"That's correct," Ågren confirmed with a nod. "Atazgan received more small arms than they could accommodate, so we've redirected the surplus. The weapons that were initially earmarked for their forces have now been donated to Alveron to compensate for their own ongoing needs."
Rosemary raised an eyebrow. "So, Atazgan essentially turned down what was sent to them?"
Ågren's gaze remained steady. "Yes, they had more than they could effectively use or store, so the surplus was moved elsewhere. Given the geographical proximity and close cooperation, transferring the shipments to Alveron made sense rather than holding them indefinitely."
Sheridan absorbed the explanation and glanced back at Rosemary. "So, the small arms are present in the shipment?"
"That is correct," Ågren replied. "Alveron will receive the goods in place of Atazgan, as they have a more immediate need and are positioned to take full advantage of the supplies."
Carlsson, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. "Gentlemen, I believe this discussion is best continued after we conduct the inventory check. The shipment is here, and that is what matters for now."
Sheridan sighed. "You're right, Captain."
Ågren gestured toward the cargo being unloaded. "Then let's begin the inspection."
They advanced toward a freshly unloaded cargo container, its metal frame still humming from the crane's careful descent. Major Ågren signalled to the nearby soldier, who stepped forward, unlocking the heavy latches. With a metallic clang, the doors swung open, revealing neatly stacked and eye-watering Bastanian-made disposable anti-tank weapons, each secured in its designated slot, wrapped underneath a protective translucent shroud, its green, tubular body still visible.
As the crates were carefully offloaded and checked, Ågren stepped forward, gesturing toward one of the open containers. He reached inside, running a gloved hand over the green, tubular launchers stacked neatly in their racks.
"The M/84," he remarked, lifting one slightly before setting it back. "Single-use, lightweight, and capable of piercing most armour. Bastan's go-to for infantry portable anti-armour warfare."
He glanced at Rosemary and Sheridan, his expression measured. "But I have to admit, I'm a little curious. There aren't exactly columns of armoured vehicles rolling through the region. Why the sudden urgency for such weapons?"
Rosemary exhaled slowly, her fingers still tapping against the leather folder she held. "It's precautionary," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "Recent assessments by foreign advisors suggest the Aetesians may possess heavier assets than previously believed. Medium and heavy platforms, possibly deployed in key areas."
Ågren's brow furrowed slightly. "American intelligence?"
Rosemary nodded. "The Japanese and them. They've been gathering information-patterns, movements, supply chains, meetings. The picture isn't crystal clear, but it's sufficient to raise concern." She exchanged a glance with Sheridan before continuing. "Our forces lack armoured support. If those reports are accurate, the infantry must bear the brunt of the fighting."
Ågren mulled over her words, his gaze flickering back to the crates. He understood the logic-a well-thought-out response to a potential threat.
The name lingered in his mind-Jylonians. Ågren's lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze drifted toward the horizon, the crash of the waves momentarily dulling the voices around him. He stepped back from the crates in a counterclockwise manner, exhaling through his nose. If Jylon was going to be involved any further, things were bound to escalate.
He turned to Sheridan, weighing his next words carefully. Ågren's fingers traced the edge of the crate, his eyes following his movements as he spoke evenly, "A personal opinion of mine, if you will, Ambassador. Given this growing need, your foreign affairs office should consider formalising a trade agreement with Bastan. We're already seeing a shift in supply chains-it would be best to secure something permanent before circumstances force a rushed deal." His tone remained neutral, but the message was clear. A structured, long-term arrangement was necessary if Alveron intended to rely on Bastanian arms.
Ågren met Sheridan's gaze. "I understand you may not have the authority yourself, but I am confident you can pull the right strings to make it happen." There was no demand in his voice, only a sense of expectation.
After a moment, she offered a nod. "I can put the right voices in the same room, Major. But securing an official trade agreement will require more than just a handshake." Her words were careful, but Ågren knew the weight behind them.
The major responded with a small nod. "Of course." However, considerations can only delay the inevitable for so long. If Alveron wants to ensure a consistent supply without uncertainty, it is best to act before external forces dictate the terms."
Sheridan's gaze shifted briefly to the open crate containing anti-tank weapons, the green tubes neatly stacked beneath their protective shroud. He knew Ågren was correct. Alveron could not afford to be caught off guard given how quickly things were changing.
A sudden crackle of static burst through Ågren's radio, followed by the uncertain voice of a private.
"Uh... Major, detta är CTT. Vi har flera medelstarka radarekon på skärmen." There was a brief pause, as if the soldier was hesitating, double-checking his readings. "Dussintals ekon i formation, bäring 317, avstånd 30 kilometre, höjd 7 kilometre. Målen är på ingående, rör sig snabbt-rörelsemönstret tyder på militärt uppträdande."
("Uh... Major, this is CTT. We have multiple medium-strength radar echoes on scope." There was a brief pause, the operator likely double-checking his readings. "Dozens of echoes in formation, bearing 317, range 30 kilometres, altitude 7 kilometres. Targets are inbound, moving fast-movement pattern suggests military activity.")
Ågren kept his expression neutral, nodding once as if the report were routine. He exhaled through his nose, fingers releasing their grip on the crate. "Kopiera, CTT," he acknowledged calmly. His mind worked quickly, weighing the possibilities-unknown, fast-moving contacts in military formation weren't something to ignore. But there was no need to startle anyone. Not yet. There was no need to alarm the others until they had more information.
"Ställ MANPADS i beredskap." ("Put MANPADS on standby,") he ordered in a steady tone, keeping his voice low.
Ågren glanced at the mountain range one last time before returning to Sheridan and the others, his expression unreadable. He adopted an air of quiet composure, ensuring that nothing in his demeanour betrayed the unease creeping into his thoughts.
"Let's finish up here," he said evenly, as if nothing had changed.
For now, they would proceed as planned. But in his mind, he was already working through contingencies, preparing for the worst. Rosemary and Sheridan looked towards each other momentarily.
Rosemary and Sheridan exchanged a glance; their unease was subtle yet evident. There was a momentary shift in Sheridan's posture, her shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. Rosemary's brow furrowed just enough to suggest suspicion, but neither spoke on it. They could only guess what had changed-Ågren's voice had remained steady, yet there was an underlying weight.
Ågren, unbothered by their silent speculation, reached into the crate, fingers brushing against the cold metal of an M/84 launcher. Lifting it slightly, he turned to Sheridan. "Ever handled one of these before?" he asked, his tone light as if making casual conversation.
Sheridan hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "Can't say I have."
Ågren offered a knowing nod. "It's a solid system. Reliable." He held it out slightly, offering the ambassador a closer look. "Feel free."
Sheridan eyed the weapon before carefully taking it, her grip uncertain but firm as she inspected it for a few seconds. She turned it over once before handing it back. "A bit heavier than I expected."
Ågren smirked faintly as he returned the launcher to its place in the crate. "It gets the job done."
A private approached then, handing Ågren a folder. "Sir, inventory report."
Ågren took it without hesitation, flipping it open. His eyes scanned the documents, cross-referencing numbers with the physical crates before him. "Eight thousand units of M/84s, one thousand crates of AuK-7 carbines and a total of 60,000 cartridges of 5.60-millimetre ammunition," he murmured. "Everything here matches up?"
The private gave a sharp nod. "Yes, sir. Counts are as expected."
Ågren hummed in approval, flipping a page. "No discrepancies?"
"None reported, sir." The private spoke out as he turned his head sideways slightly in a nod.
"Good." He closed the folder, giving one last glance at the private after handing it back. "Last thing we need is missing stock."
The private chuckled nervously. "Wouldn't want that on my record, sir."
Ågren said in a serious tone that one could mistake it as hostile. "No, you wouldn't."
He looked at the crates before turning back to Sheridan and Rosemary, his expression unreadable once more. "Everything checks out." His words were simple and efficient. But beneath them, his mind remained elsewhere.
A low, distant murmur rolled through the air, barely noticeable at first-like a storm grumbling just beyond the horizon. It was subtle but constant, a deep vibration that seemed to settle in the bones rather than the ears. The sound wavered, shifting between a muffled growl and a soft tremor as if something vast and unseen was moving far away.
Ågren kept his expression neutral as he closed the folder, nodding in satisfaction. Everything was in order.
A crackle came over the radio again. "CTT till Major-spår håller kurs och hastighet, fortfarande på väg in. Inget svar på IFF-utmaningen. Mål att sjunka i höga hastigheter."
("CTT to Major-tracks maintaining course and speed, still inbound. No response on IFF challenge. Targets dropping altitude at high rates.")
"Just a...random question. Are there any American, Japanese, or other flights scheduled for today? I've always wanted to see them for myself." He asked with a small smile to Rosemary and Sheridan.
"No, there isn't," Rosemary replied, raising her eyebrow suspiciously.
Ågren kept his tone measured as he pressed the radio to his ear, speaking in a low voice. "Lasta RBS 60, och få kontakt med de Sjöberg." (Load the RBS 60, and establish contact with the Sjöberg.)
On cue, a private stepped forward, drawing Sheridan and Rosemary's attention away as he gestured toward the open crate. "These are the M/84s you've already seen, firing an 84mm high-explosive anti-tank round, excellent for armour penetration. And here-" he tapped the next crate, "-is the AuK-7, standard-issue, chambered in 5.60x47mm, lightweight but powerful." His tone was casual, almost rehearsed, meant to hold their focus.
Meanwhile, behind them, movement stirred on the deck. Rosemary's attention wavered as she caught glimpses of Bastanian sailors moving with purpose, no longer idly standing by. At first, she thought little of it-perhaps just another round of routine checks-but something about the way they moved felt different. Urgent.
Then, she saw them hauling large, unfamiliar tubes with dark green exteriors. Some of the men worked in pairs, one steadying a squat, three-legged base while the other secured one of the tubes onto it. Others snapped smaller devices into place-boxy control units, cables, and something like a thin piece of glass-flipping it upwards into place.
Metal clanked against metal. A soldier kneeled beside the mounted contraption, adjusting something with gloved hands. Another crouched nearby, flipping a small cover open and reaching for a control panel. Whatever they were setting up, it wasn't for show.
Then, the ship's loudspeaker crackled to life. A sharp tone rang out before a firm voice spoke in Bastanian. Behind all of it, she could hear the deep vibration from afar before becoming ever so slightly louder each second. She looked up in the general direction of the sound, not seeing anything other than clouds, before looking at Sheridan.
Rosemary's pulse quickened. She frowned, her gaze narrowing. Something was off. She knew something was off all along, but she could no longer sit and ignore it.
She turned toward Ågren, her voice firm but laced with unease. "Major, what is happening?"
Ågren turned toward them, his voice steady despite the faint crack that betrayed the tension beneath. "We're taking precautions." His gaze flickered past them for the briefest moment, tracking the sailors as they finished securing the launchers. The hum in the distance was growing, no longer just a whisper in the wind.
Rosemary wasn't satisfied. "Precautions for what?" Her eyes darted toward the men still working on the strange contraptions-she could see them locking the tubes into place, adjusting sights, one even murmuring something into a headset. The ship itself seemed to tense, a shift in its very atmosphere.
Ågren exhaled through his nose, choosing his words carefully. "We detected unknown air co-"
He was abruptly cut off as a low, droning whine filled the air. It started as a distant hum, barely distinguishable from the background noise of the harbour. Then it climbed, a rising mechanical howl that sent vibrations skittering through the concrete beneath their feet.
The sirens erupted in full force. A shrill, undulating wail rolled across the dockyard, bouncing off the ship's steel hull and towering cranes above. The sound relentlessly clawed through the air. Workers froze mid-task, heads snapping toward the source, while sailors on the deck above rushed to their stations.
A sudden, violent tremor ripped through the air, a shockwave rolling across the dock with an ear-splitting boom. The ground shuddered beneath Rosemary's feet, forcing her to instinctively brace herself against the nearest crate.
A split second later, a towering fireball erupted in the distance, clawing into the sky like a second sun. The northwest end of the city was ablaze-billowing flames swallowing a Japanese fuel storage station in a violent chain reaction. A thunderous crack followed, then another, each explosion sending shockwaves rippling outward.
Then came the sound-an eerie, descending whistle that cut through the chaos. More bombs.
Before she could even react, another explosion shattered the skyline, sending a column of fire and black smoke surging into the sky. The whistling intensified, the air itself seeming to scream as more bombs rained down, each one carving fresh devastation into the city.
Ågren's breath caught in his throat as he took in the destruction before him. The once-peaceful port city was now engulfed in chaos-flames consuming buildings, black smoke curling into the sky, and explosions rattling through the streets like the tolling of a death knell. He had seen war before, but this-this was something else.
A Bastanian soldier's voice rang out, raw with alarm. "Those are Jylonian bombers!"
Ågren snapped his head up just as a sudden break in the thick, rolling clouds revealed their silhouettes. Dozens of dark shapes glided through the sky, their formation disjointed, almost hesitant. It was strange-sloppy even. Bastan had seen the Jylonians fight before, and while they were more primitive, they were not this...disorganised.
The radio crackled to life again, static laced with urgency. "Målgrupper på tre kilometers höjd, hastighet har sjunkit."
("Targets at three kilometres altitude, speed decreasing.")
Ågren's brow furrowed. "Slowing down?" He thought to himself. His fingers curled into fists. What the hell are they doing? Even the Jylonians had standards. But these bombers flew like they had never done this before. His gut twisted-who were these people?
The radio crackled with hurried voices as the operator processed the incoming data. "Bekräftar sex fyra bombplan. Inga eskorter. Radareko matchar Jylonian B5 Penguin."
(Confirming sixty-four bombers. No escorts. Radar echos match Jylonian B5 Penguin.)
The news sent a chill through the air-sixty-four bombers, unchecked and unchallenged, raining destruction down upon the main city only a few kilometres from them.
Ågren didn't hesitate. He snatched the radio, his voice sharp and commanding. "Kontakta krigsskepp Sjöberg omedelbart. De måste meddela högkvarteret-vi är under anfall av fientliga bombplan, ingen eskort, uppenbar brist på disciplin i deras formationer."
("Contact warship Sjöberg immediately. They must inform high command-we are under attack by hostile bombers, no escorts, clear lack of discipline in their formations.")
The destroyer was nearly 600 kilometres away-too far to provide any direct assistance. But they could serve as the vital link to relay the dire situation to the Bastanian command. If High Command responded quickly, there was a chance they could scramble fighters from the Principality of Atazgan to intercept any follow-up waves. His grip tightened on the radio. Help was far away, and for now, they were on their own.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! Explosions shattered the mediaeval-industrial-age mixed city below. A marketplace erupted into flames as a direct hit sent wooden stalls, stone structures crumbling, and parts of people flying into the air in a bloody mess. Roads cracked and heaved under the relentless bombardment, while plumes of thick black smoke began to choke the skyline. Civilian buildings, some centuries old, crumbled under the onslaught, their rooftops collapsing in showers of fire and debris.
The Major brought the radio closer to his mouth, his jaw tightening as the distant roar of engines grew louder. "Robotsystem, öppen avfyra, öppen avfyra!"
A sharp, mechanical whir filled the air as the missile launcher's targeting system locked onto the incoming bombers. Then, with a deafening crack and a rush of displaced air, the RBS-60 missile streaked out of its tube, its solid-fuel motor igniting into a brilliant white-hot streak. The launch left a sharp, almost metallic snap in its wake, followed by the high-pitched hiss of the laser-guided projectile cutting through the sky.
The missile raced toward the first formation of twelve bombers, which had just emerged over the northwestern edge of the city. Behind them, the rest of the enemy squadrons spread out, adjusting their flight paths to maximise destruction across multiple areas. From the ground, the bombers looked sluggish, yet their payloads rained devastation with relentless barbarity.
The impact was immediate and catastrophic. The missile struck the right wing, shearing it clean off in an explosion of fire and twisted metal. The bomber lurched sideways, its trajectory thrown into chaos as it veered left, spiralling uncontrollably.
For a brief moment, it hung in the air, caught between gravity and momentum-then it slammed into a neighbouring aircraft. The second bomber barely had time to react before the flaming wreckage of its wingman crashed into its fuselage. The collision sent shockwaves rippling through the air, splitting the second aircraft clean in half, sending smoking metal and fire down like confetti.
Fiery debris rained down over the outskirts of the city as the two broken bombers plummeted toward the ground, their burning remains carving trails of smoke through the sky.
The radio crackled with frantic voices.
"Spår 133, förstört!" (Track 133, destroyed!)
"Spår 312 avviker, nytt mål, nytt mål!" (Track 312 breaking off, new target, new target!)
"Bomber fällda över de centrala kvarteren!" (Bombs dropped over the central districts!)
As the first missile found its mark, a Bastanian soldier moved swiftly, unfastening the spent launch tube from the RBS-60's mount. He tossed the empty casing aside, its metal clattering against the concrete dock, before reaching for a fresh missile canister.
Another soldier was already beside him, hoisting the new tube onto the launcher. With a sharp click and a grunt of exertion, he locked it into place. The loader slapped the operator's shoulder-a confirmation that they were ready to fire again.
"Robotssystem, redo!" someone shouted over the radio.
Ågren clenched his jaw, forcing himself to turn back toward the chaos unfolding before them. The city burnt thick plumes of black smoke curling into the sky as more bombs rained down. Screams and distant sirens melded into a horrific sound of death and destruction.
Behind him, Rosemary trembled, her knees buckling beneath her as she fell to the ground. Both hands covered her mouth, muffling the sobs that wracked her body. Tears streamed down her face, reflecting the orange glow of fire consuming the once-peaceful city.
The Ambassador stood beside her, his expression dark with grief and fury. He rested a firm hand on her shoulder-a gesture of silent solidarity. Yet his eyes never left the burning skyline, filled with the weight of helplessness and quiet rage.
Another missile streaked upward, its fiery trail cutting through the haze. A moment later, a distant explosion blossomed in the sky as a bomber was struck, its fuselage splitting apart before spiralling toward the sea.
One by one, red streaks of tracer fire slashed through the smoke-choked sky as nearly half a dozen Alveronian M167 Vulcan air defence systems roared to life. The cracking shots from the Vulcan spat out streams of 20mm rounds at a blistering rate. The inexperienced gunners struggled to track the bombers, their shots scattered and imprecise.
Most rounds streaked past their targets, vanishing into the burning horizon, but a few found their mark. A bomber that had dipped too low was shredded by concentrated fire, its fuselage punctured before one of its engines erupted in flames. It wobbled violently, trying to pull up, but gravity took hold. The aircraft rolled onto its side, plummeting into the city outskirts with a thunderous explosion, sending a shockwave rippling through the streets.
Another bomber took several hits along its right wing, fuel and hydraulic fluid spraying from the perforated metal. It veered sideways, its flight unstable, before one of the RBS-60 missiles streaked in and finished the job. The aircraft disintegrated midair, flaming debris raining down onto the homes and into the sea.
Despite the occasional success, the chaos was undeniable. The gunners' lack of training was evident-most of their fire was wasted, their nerves making them overshoot or hesitate. Still, the sheer volume of rounds in the air forced the bombers to adjust their flight paths.
Ågren took it all in with gritty teeth. This wasn't an organised defence-it was desperation.
The radio crackled to life once more, but this time it wasn't the usual stream of Bastanian commands. A soldier's voice broke through, strained but clear. "Major! We've intercepted their communications-they're broadcasting on open radio!" He hesitated for a moment, as though struggling to believe the words himself. "It's the Aetesians, sir. They're claiming this in the name of the Aetesian Empire."
Ågren's brow furrowed, his thoughts racing. The chaotic, disjointed formation of the bombers suddenly made sense. This wasn't a Jylonian assault. It was something cruder-desperate but effective. Yet there was something more unsettling beneath the surface. The Aetesians weren't simply operating abandoned aircraft; they had coordination, just enough to make the attack devastating.
It hit him then. When the Jylonians had hastily withdrawn from the southern airbases in the Aetesian Empire, abandoning stockpiles of weapons and aircraft, not all of their soldiers had left. Some had stayed behind, defecting or selling their loyalty. Those Jylonians, likely embittered or opportunistic, had trained the Aetesians. They had passed down their knowledge-enough to turn unskilled pilots into dangerous threats.
The radio flared again, a burst of fervent voices breaking through the static.
"For the Aetesian Empire!" A pilot's voice snarled, thick with conviction. Another barked order with the same distinct accent, the weight of nationalist zeal clear in every syllable. "Crush their harbour! Burn their ships! Leave nothing but ash!"
Three bombers split from the second formation, their engines growling as they veered north toward the newly constructed port. Their target was clear-a self-propelled anti-aircraft installation positioned along the docks.
The Alveronian M167 Vulcans roared to life, its barrels spinning as it spewed a relentless stream of tracer rounds into the sky. The inexperienced gunner struggled to track the moving targets, but a lucky burst of fire clipped the wing of the lead bomber. Smoke billowed from its fuselage as it wobbled in the air. Desperate to complete its mission, the pilot pulled up sharply, the crew releasing the bomb payload early.
The explosives tumbled downward-not onto the intended target, but onto the scattered construction crews below. The ground erupted in fire and debris, bodies thrown violently as the shockwave rippled across the docks. Screams of agony and terror barely registered over the deafening barrage of gunfire and explosions.
Before the crew of the damaged bomber could regain control, the M167 lined up another volley. This time, the rounds tore through the centre of the aircraft, shredding its tail section. The bomber lurched violently, its nose tipping downward as it spiralled out of control-directly toward the very anti-aircraft gun that had sealed its fate.
The M167 crew barely had time to react before the burning wreck slammed into them, detonating upon impact. The resulting fireball consumed both the bomber and the vehicle, sending a column of black smoke into the sky as burning debris scattered across the dockyard.
A dull metallic clunk echoed through the fire-the sound of something heavy tumbling free. One of the bomber's 250 kg bombs, dislodged by the impact, had failed to release properly during the doomed aircraft's final moments. Now, it rolled across the scorched pavement, its casing dented and blackened by the fire licking at its sides.
Then, a deafening explosion tore through the dockyard. The delayed detonation sent a concussive shockwave rippling outward, hurling shattered steel and concrete in every direction. The blast ripped through nearby supply crates, vehicles, and the scattered remains of the bomber and M167.
Seconds later, six bombers roared overhead, their dark silhouettes slicing through the smoke-filled sky. Their course was unmistakable: They were heading straight for a towering construction crane standing near the bustling market centre and adjacent housing blocks. Before the attack, the area was a hub of activity, with American companies overseeing the construction of multi-story buildings intended for both residential and commercial use.
The steel crane, a skeletal giant, loomed over the half-built structures. Workers had abandoned their stations in a panic, some still scrambling for shelter, and others frozen in disbelief as the droning engines grew louder.
Then, the bomb bay doors of the lead aircraft yawned open.
Three detached from the belly of the lead bomber as it plummeted toward the construction site. For a brief moment, time seemed to stretch-workers, civilians, and soldiers alike watching its descent in helpless anticipation. Then, with a deafening crack, it struck the base of the towering crane.
A fiery explosion erupted at the impact point, sending a shockwave rippling outward. Metal screamed as the force of the blast tore through the foundation, obliterating support beams and sending shards of steel and concrete flying in all directions. The crane shuddered, its skeletal frame groaning under the sudden loss of stability. Flames licked at its lower half, smoke pouring from the wreckage like a death shroud.
For a split second, it stood defiant, teetering on what little remained of its foundation. Then, with a slow, agonising creak, like the metal itself released a painful cry, it began to tilt.
Workers and civilians, who had just begun to process the initial explosion, now found themselves in the path of an even greater catastrophe. Some turned to run, their footsteps frantic against the cracked pavement, while others stood rooted in place, their eyes wide with terror.
The crane picked up momentum as it fell, its massive steel arm scything through the air. Sparks flew as they scraped against the side of an unfinished building, tearing through scaffolding like paper before finally giving way. With an earth-shaking crash, the colossal structure slammed into the ground, flattening new American and Japanese vehicles, stalls, and the unfortunate souls who hadn't escaped in time.
A plume of dust and debris shot skyward, swallowing the street in a choking cloud. The cries of the wounded and dying pierced through the thick air, merging with the distant wail of sirens as first responders rushed toward the scene.
What had once been a thriving market centre was now a graveyard of ruin.
The remaining bombers, dark silhouettes against the smoke-choked sky, began their descent. Engines roared as they banked into formation, their shadows sweeping across the shattered remains of the crane and the crumbling market below. Thick plumes of smoke curled upward, mingling with the overcast sky, as the aircraft wheeled into a slow, predatory circle.
One by one, their bomb bay doors groaned open, revealing the payloads within. Flames from the collapsed crane licked hungrily at nearby buildings, while distant figures stumbled through the haze, dazed and desperate to escape.
With a flash of white smoke and a sharp hiss, the RBS-60 missile tore from its launcher, streaking skyward in a spiralling trail. The blast of its ignition rattled the concrete beneath Major Ågren's feet, the concussive force momentarily overpowering the distant rumble of the burning city. The missile's guidance fins adjusted in microseconds, locking onto the nearest bomber.
A flash erupted midair as the warhead detonated just beneath the bomber's wing. Shards of twisted metal sprayed outward, the blast shearing the left-side wing clean off. The aircraft lurched violently, its silhouette contorting as it spiralled out of control. Flames erupted from the ruptured fuel tanks, leaving a blazing trail in its wake before spiralling out of control, crashing into a two-story home below, crushing it into rubble.
But the destruction was far from over.
A second missile streaked through the sky, trailing a thin white plume. It slammed into the midsection of the lead bomber-a direct hit. The warhead's detonation split the aircraft in a violent burst of flame, shattering its frame like a brittle shell. The twisted fuselage tumbled apart, severed wings spiralling away while fragments of shattered metal rained down like deadly shrapnel. For a moment, there was a brief, haunting stillness as the two halves of the bomber plummeted, their wreckage lost in the thickening smoke.
Yet it was all in vain.
The remaining bombers pressed on, their dark silhouettes looming menacingly against the ashen sky. The destruction of two aircraft did little to deter the formation. One by one, their bomb bay doors groaned open, revealing the ominous rows of 500-kilogram and 250-kilogram bombs. The payloads gleamed faintly in the dim light, seconds from release.
With a metallic clunk, the bombs detached, tumbling downward with grim certainty. Rows of black shapes plummeted in near-perfect synchronisation their descent marked by a shrill, descending whistle that sent a cold dread through the air.
Impact.
The first bombs struck near the charred wreckage of the crane, sending a deafening shockwave across the port. The blast punched a crater into the concrete, hurling rubble and twisted metal into the sky. The shockwave tore through the nearby stalls of the market, flattening whatever remained standing. Further inland, more bombs struck, sending a plume of blackened earth skyward as buildings crumbled under the force, their facades collapsing in a cascade of shattered brick and splintered wood.
Further along the bay, four bombers peeled off from the main formation, their engines droning as they banked toward the docked American and Japanese cargo ships, along with an American auxiliary vessel. Their flight paths were steady-too steady.
Major Ågren barely had time to process it before their bomb bay doors yawned open. A cluster of 250-kilogram bombs tumbled free.
Ågren's heart pounded as he tracked their descent. Unlike the first chaotic strike, these were deliberate. The targets were clear.
The first bomb struck the bow of a Japanese freighter with devastating force. The impact ruptured the pristine white hull in an instant, the explosion ripping through steel like paper. A plume of fire and debris shot skyward as the front section of the ship crumpled inward, sending waves of seawater cascading over the pier.
Another bomb found its mark on an American vessel moored nearby. The deck erupted in a violent blast, shattering crates, equipment, and anything else in its path. Shrapnel tore through the dockyard, cutting down workers and sailors scrambling for cover. The force of the detonation sent the auxiliary ship listing, its mooring lines snapping like whipcords.
The bombers seemed to have exhausted their payloads, their black silhouettes banking toward the northwestern outskirts of the city. One by one, they regrouped, forming a loose formation before turning away, and retreating into the distant haze. Below them, the city lay in ruin. Towering flames devoured entire blocks, sending flickering light across the thick plumes of smoke rising into the darkened sky. Merchant ships were left listing or sinking; their hulls cracked open like fragile shells. Construction sites were reduced to skeletal remains of twisted steel and shattered concrete. And the people-thousands of them, maybe more-lay dead, dying, or desperately searching for safety in a city-turned battlefield.
The bombers seemed to have finally expended their payloads, the distant silhouettes banking away from the destruction below. Engines roared as they began their sluggish retreat, circling toward the northwestern end of the city. The attack had lasted only minutes, but the damage was catastrophic. Across the skyline, columns of thick, dark smoke twisted into the heavens, blotting out what little light remained. Merchant ships listed and sank beneath the stained waves, their twisted hulls barely visible through the haze. Construction sites were left in ruin-skeletal frameworks of buildings collapsed upon themselves, cranes bent and toppled like broken limbs.
The air was heavy with the acrid stench of burning fuel, scorched metal, and the lingering tang of cordite. Cries echoed from the rubble-strewn streets-survivors calling for aid, the wounded groaning beneath collapsed structures. More than likely, thousands were dead, and countless others lay injured amid the twisted wreckage. The once-thriving cityscape had become a hellish panorama of destruction.
Major Ågren stood frozen, his gaze locked on the distant bombers as they disappeared beyond the horizon. Despite the bitter satisfaction of seeing a few brought down by the RBS-60s, the overwhelming weight of failure bore down on him. The air defence systems, limited by their maximum range of 11 kilometres, could do nothing to strike the remaining aircraft. Slowly, the distant bark of anti-aircraft guns faded into silence as the bombers crossed beyond reach.
In the aftermath, the city's air raid sirens continued to wail, their cries blending with the crackling of fire and the distant rumble of secondary explosions. Firefighters struggled to contain the blazes consuming the docks and nearby buildings, their water jets lost in the choking black smoke. Emergency vehicles roared through the streets, their sirens piercing the air as they weaved through the chaos. Civilian volunteers and military personnel alike stumbled through the debris, dragging survivors from the wreckage, their faces smeared with soot and ash.
But amidst the destruction, Major Ågren's thoughts were elsewhere. His hands clenched into fists, the strain evident in his whitening knuckles. The Aetesians. They had struck with brutal precision, bypassing all defences and bombarding the city under the very nose of American and Japanese protection. The thought gnawed at him. How had they managed this? Alveron was supposed to be shielded under the nations of America and Japan, boasting advanced radars, reconnaissance systems, and early warning networks. And yet, the Aetesians had flown straight through.
The Major's mind raced, piecing together fragments of what he knew. He had heard the rumours-whispers in the officer's mess, murmurs in backroom discussions. It was said that the United States and Japan stood as technological equals with Bastan. And yet, the charred ruins before him felt like they told a different story.
His eyes narrowed as a bitter realisation took hold. Had the Aetesians used the ceasefire as a cover? The thought chilled him. The timing was deliberate, the opportunity perfect. The Bastanians had grown complacent, trusting in their alliances to ensure safety. But the Aetesians had seized that false peace, slipping past the watchful eyes of intelligence services and radar networks. They had come like vultures-and now the city burnt.
Could this be a glaring weakness in American and Japanese intelligence? The Major's brow furrowed deeper. If the Aetesians could exploit such a lapse once, what stopped them from doing it again? Perhaps the enemy had mapped out weak flanks-areas that the powers failed to cover. He clenched his jaw. And if they could do this here, where else could they strike?
Still, another thought gnawed at the back of his mind. No, I can't jump to conclusions. Despite the fury bubbling within him, Ågren forced himself to consider the possibilities. Intelligence failures were not always so black and white. There were complexities he could not yet see. Perhaps the Aetesians had found a vulnerability neither the Americans nor the Japanese could have anticipated. Giving the benefit of the doubt, for now, was necessary. But the doubt lingered all the same.
The Major looked once more toward the distant sky, where the last remnants of smoke from the bombers trailed into the heavens. The city lay shattered, its people broken, but something else stirred within him. This would not be forgotten. And the Aetesians, for all their cunning, had ensured one thing-Alveron, Bastan, America, and Japan would never let their guard down again.